


Give Your Heart A Break

by LightDarkPheonix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Post Reichenbach, Amputation, For Want of a Nail, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 2 AU, Prosthetic Limb, Serbia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightDarkPheonix/pseuds/LightDarkPheonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in love with John, but the feeling isn't mutual. John is happy with Mary, despite recent events, and their family will soon be joined by Wilma.</p><p>Different from my normal style in that this is not Johnlock. Instead, it will be background Mary/John and Sherlock/OC (haven't come up with a name yet)</p><p>Small AU in that Sherlock has a knee-down prosthetic on his left leg.</p><p>Edit: Have changed the title. Probably just as bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Osteocarsoma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saziikins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/gifts).



> Disclaimer:  
> I own nothing.
> 
> Gifting it to Saziikins, because Human Remains is absolutely beautiful even if it doesn't have anything to do with this.

Sherlock’s mouth fell open slightly as he leaned back against the couch, eyes drooping shut for a moment. Shaking his head to clear it, he straightened and hefted his left leg onto the coffee table and rolled up the trouser. Instead of revealing flesh, the removal of the material revealed a prosthetic limb, of the sort often used by osteosarcoma and war survivors. 

The detective grunted slightly as he detached the prosthesis, which made a slight popping noise as the suction holding it to the stump released. The socket had been well made, and there was only slight irritation, to Sherlock’s relief, which mostly came from the stress of running around a city without resting.

It was impossible to feel anything but gratitude towards Mycroft, despite their usual pseudo animosity, as not only had the government employee saved him from the wondrous hellhole that was Serbia, but he had given him a means to continue doing the Work even after he’d had to have the leg amputated.

The loss of his limb was one of the more traumatizing effects of his time away, almost more so then the months of torture, or the isolation, or the lack of John. When he’d woken up to find the sheet flat where it should have been bumpy, he panicked, losing control of himself in a manner unfamiliar to him since the early days of his drug addiction. He’d been convinced that he would no longer be able to do the only thing that kept him sane, or that John would stop liking him as much, a sort of internalized ablism taking hold.

While he had learned quickly that with time, PT and repetition, he would be able to run again, the fear that John would somehow come to value him as lesser was still prevalent. Even as he grew able to run again, and even after he revealed himself to John and they went on their runabout around the city, he didn’t tell the former army doctor. 

Sherlock set the prosthetic down on the coffee table and sunk back into the couch. The bottom half of his left limb was not the only thing he left behind in Serbia. He had also lost any sort of barriers between himself and his own emotions. Which John hadn’t seemed to have noticed either. That was odd. Before, John knew quite a lot about Sherlock, could read him almost as well as Sherlock could read him.

Of course, this wasn’t Before. This was After, and Sherlock would have to deal with that reality. Even if it had felt like for him that time had stood still the two years he was trying to bring down the Network, it hadn’t, not really. Death changes people, after all, even if that death turned out to be fake. 

The day had been... _hell_. Honestly, his life hadn’t exactly been nice since he jumped off a building, but today had been especially terrible. Not only had he shot a man in cold blood for John, but he’d almost been sent to his death, a quickly timed forged Moriarty video from Mycroft managing to call him back just in time. 

Being in love with your straight former flatmate was unpleasant. _Acknowledging_ this fact was even less fun. The uncomfortable feeling of his heart being pressed had become a constant companion, recently, anxiety about everything taking a very physical toll.

He was tired, exhausted even. He would have normally have coped with the ache in his chest and the frantic churning of his brain with cocaine, but the disappointment evident in John’s features... 

Sherlock shuddered slightly as he imagined. John’s face shouldn’t look like that. Even though he really did have the right to be disappointed in Sherlock, since Sherlock had hurt him so badly. 

He rubbed idly at the stump again, fingers running over the slightly lumpy skin. Despite seeming popular impression of amputations, the leg did not cut off it a straight line. It was sort of tapered, with surprisingly little visible scarring. Probably Mycroft had paid for other doctors to do something about that, after they removed the limb itself. Decidedly not for aesthetic reasons, considering the odds of anyone other than Sherlock ever seeing that particular piece of skin were low. 

He let his eyes drift shut. He had no one to put up a front for, so sleep was something he had no problem actively seeking when he needed it. Maybe he’d be lucky and there’d be no nightmares tonight. Unlikely, but everyone hoped for something. In Sherlock’s case, that was a night without visions of cruel, uncaring hands or dying friends. 

He must have drifted off because he definitely woke up to the sound of someone coming up the stairs. 

_Slightly off cadence.. cane? John._ John. _Oh, no, Not Good_. 

So this was how the doctor would find out about Sherlock’s lack of the bottom half of his left leg. Well, he doubted he’d ever tell him, so it was probably a good way. He still instinctively pushed his trouser leg over the stump and sat up, fingers drumming on his right thigh, eyes still closed. 

“Hello, Sherlock, Mary and I were wondering how you were do...” John cut off mid concerned excuse, eyes drawn to the empty trouser leg and the prosthetic on the table. 

The detective sighed, and opened his eyes to see John trying not to stare and being annoying obvious about it. “John, don’t you have a wife to spend time with?” hopefully he wasn’t bitter, or at least, he was only bitter enough that Mycroft would have picked up on it. 

John looked at the prosthetic, and then straight into Sherlock’s eyes. “When did this happen?” he asked, voice worriedly in doctor-mode. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Serbia. My travels weren’t all unicorns and roses, honestly John. I was tortured for roughly three months, when they got me out there wasn’t much they could do about the leg, so they removed it. PT was terrible, also the reason why I did not reveal myself soon as I returned to London. I was not exactly in the best shape. Don’t feel guilty though, when you punched me, most of my wounds had healed up, and I was capable enough with my fake leg to not fall over.”

The doctor looked guilty for a moment, which confused the detective. “You were tortured?” he asked, eyes wide.

Sherlock nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Yes. I’d show you the whipmarks but I don’t think that is polite. That’s what you got out of that, not that I’ve been legless since I’ve returned?”

John sighed. “I’m a doctor, I should have...”

Sherlock cut him off, “I had just unwisely tried to put humor into an unhumorous situation. I deserve probably more than a couple of hits for what I’ve put you through,” he shrugged. “Forgive me for not getting up, but I’ve just taken the damned thing off for the first time in a good long time, so I’d rather keep it off. I might be able to successfully hobble if I hang onto something, but even I can’t walk one-legged.

“No, no, it’s fine” John looked a bit like he had when Sherlock had pulled that trick in the tube car. Exasperated, infuriated... _used_? Where the hell did that one come from. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, _Do you trust me that little?_

The detective was vaguely aware of the sensation similar to that of being punched in the gut. He couldn’t find words for a couple of seconds, trying to understand what had caused John to jump to that conclusion so quickly. Piecing what he wanted to say together in his mind so that he wouldn’t stutter or have any awkward gaps or swallows, he replied, voice oddly hollow to his ears, “It wasn’t a matter of trust. I thought you’d think less of me, or treat me different, coddle me.”

John swallowed heavily, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I forgot you can tell what I was thinking,” he said wryly. “I won’t, trust me. I’ve met a lot of veterans with prosthetics, especially early in my career in the military when I was working at a military hospital here in England.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, John sat down next to him on the couch, leaning the couch against it. “How are you? I should have asked you that, before now. I guess I was so caught up in your return, and then the wedding and then the whole fiasco surrounding Magnussen.”

The detective looked up at the ceiling, considering whether or not he should tell the truth. “No, not entirely anyway. I do believe I have PTSD,” he didn’t look at John. He shouldn’t feel as ashamed as he did, John had been through the same thing, after all. But he still did, the idea of his own mind rebelling against him, his greatest strength suddenly one of his weaknesses. The idea he had of himself, the version he was certain John wanted to still be there, did not have flashbacks or hallucinate his former flatmate’s voice saying spiteful things. 

_“Why tell me that? Should I care, considering what you’ve put me through?”_ John’s voice, though John was here, his mouth not moving. John’s voice saying cruel things that the doctor would never say, but maybe had though, once, twice, many times. Sherlock shook his head slightly, resisting the urge not to respond with a yelled shut up. 

The detective looked down with John tentatively putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock looked at the shorter man’s face, and saw no pity in those impossibly blue eyes. Instead, he saw understanding, and he told the voice to shut the fuck up. “Do... do you need to talk?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, not now. I can’t... do you understand that?” John nods in understanding, and Sherlock silences the part of himself that desperately wishes to state all his woes to John, let all the emotions he’s bottled up since he swan dived off a building out. John meant well with his offer, and probably thought he meant it. That is the kind of man he was, and was probably the reason he had become a doctor in the first place.

He couldn’t do that, though. John was dealing with enough emotional turmoil as it was, and Sherlock did not want to ruin John’s Christmas any more than he already had. John loved Mary, any one with half a brain cell could see that, and despite the rumors that had always swirled, John was definitively a straight man. Any love between the pair was entirely platonic on John’s side. He needed the blonde haired women, even if she had shot Sherlock. That John had forgiven her with only minor prompting and had swallowed the detective’s bullshited story about her surgically not killing him despite putting a bullet in his chest proved that his loyalties had shifted at least a little.

There was also the small matter of the child that Mary was carrying, Lucy Watson. John had always wanted children, an easy deduction. And Mary, who he loved, would give him that dream. The saying was, “if you love someone, let it go,” after all, and Sherlock loved John very dearly. His happiness was the most important thing in the world, even more so than the detective’s own.

 

 

 


	2. A genuine smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Noah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noah and Ben are named after my 9th/8th grade history teachers.  
> I'm not sure how they'd react to finding out they share names with Sherlock and John expies. Heh.

 

John was as good as his word, and didn’t treat him differently at all. Well, occasionally he’d say something to the gist of “Hey, you’ve been up and about for awhile, how about you take it off and let your leg rest for a bit?” which Sherlock did not count as coddling. Oftentimes, John would comment just as Sherlock considered breaking himself.

To the detective’s surprise, things did not change as drastically as he thought they would. Obviously John didn’t live with him anymore, but that was the new normal, and had been since he came back, those few months after he’d been shot notwithstanding. They went on cases still, but considering the baby on the way, Sherlock made a point of not bringing John along on any cases unless it was convenient. The “Come if convenient” texts were literal, now, which John seemed to appreciate.

They were both different. John didn’t crave violence as much, Sherlock’s death and Mary having mellowed him somewhat. His responsibilities as a dad were also apparently kicking in rather spectacularly, so he was unwilling to put himself in danger as often. Sherlock understood that, intellectually, and was slowly growing to understand on a more emotional level as well. He had changed to, through his experiences, not just in Serbia, but in the other times during his two years away. 

The John that Sherlock had kept in his Mind Palace had grown bitter, and he was proud of himself in the present that it had been months since it had said something cruel in his bestfriend’s voice. He no longer was as outrageous as he’d been, which always seemed to shock those he spoke to who knew him before.

Sherlock had been considering all of this while wandering the streets of London, relearning her pathways after his years away, when suddenly he was jolted out of his thoughts by a searing pain in his right (good) leg.

He looked down, and realized that the reason this pain was slightly different from all the other pain he had felt in his life was because it came from a dog biting down on his leg. It was a rather small dog, but apparently it made up for its size with it’s teeth because it wouldn’t let go.

Shaking the leg with the dog on it, he realized too late that while prosthetics were fantastic works of technological magic, they did not quite have the bracing power of flesh legs. He toppled over, the dog running away, barking madly, as he fell. 

By some miracle of gravity for once working in his favor, he didn’t crack his head on the pavement, but it still hurt, and the prosthetic was at an angle as to make it very difficult for him to get up again. His right leg hurt like hell, and already dark blotches were forming on his trousers.

He heard footsteps coming towards him. The dog’s owner? This was confirmed when he looked up at the man attached to the feet who made the noise. “Are you alright?” the man asked, doing something with his eyes. It took a few moments for Sherlock to realize that this man, whoever he was, was deducing him.

“My one good leg has dog teeth marks in it, I am not in any way alright,” Sherlock said bluntly. The man ( _immigrant, obvious, but has lived in UK since he was a young child, detective(?????), doesn’t actually own the dog... dog was a stray? Well fed stray, no matter_ ) stretched a hand out to Sherlock. Two years earlier, the detective would have likely done something similar to hissing at him, and refused the help, but years as a fugitive and months of PT for the leg had stripped him of any unnecessary pride long ago.

He grabbed the hand with both of his own, and hoisted himself up, wincing as he realized the fall had caused him to skin his bad leg against the concrete. He looked at the trousers he was wearing, which he was fairly confident were expensive, as Mummy had bought them for him. There were minutes tears, and little blotches on the material. Not as big as the stains left from the bite, but still noticeable. Ah, well, there were other trousers in the world.

The man didn’t say a word as Sherlock leaned heavily against him, his balance still thrown from the fall. No pity, just understanding, somehow. “You’re not the only consulting detective in the world,” the man said quietly, “And Moriarty wasn’t... monogamous in his twisted form of affection.” 

Sherlock looked at the man in surprise, and for the first time got a good look him. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Sherlock couldn’t place from where. “Give me a second,” he said, as they walked (well, the man, walked, Sherlock hobbled) back to, according to a brief conversation through gestures during their verbal exchange, the man’s flat so that the injuries could be looked at. He entered his mind palace, keeping just enough awareness outside of it so that he wouldn’t bang into something, trusting the man to guide him despite knowing him for only moments. 

He flipped through his facial recognition software, before narrowing it down to a single image. The hair color was different, dark brown instead of ginger, but the eyes were still a striking shade of blue. Noah Alary, originally from Canada. Sherlock had run into him in Serbia, right before he was captured. He’d assumed he was just another of Mycroft’s operatives, apparently he had been wrong in that assumption. 

“Were you tortured as well?” Sherlock asked, blinking to remove himself from his palace. He very pointedly slammed a door as he left, one that would never quite stay shut, the door to the padded cell where Moriarty lay restrained.

Noah shook his head. “Not by Baron Maupartis’ men, no. Earlier on in the chase, yes. I lost my...” he faltered suddenly, mouth open but no words coming out. Struggling slightly, he looked suddenly quite vulnerable, and Sherlock realized what he was trying to say. 

“You have aphasia, mild, but debilitating when it does happen,” he said. Useful then, that Sherlock had his deductive abilities. It meant the man would not need to rely on his words as much as he might have.

Noah nodded. “It doesn’t happen as often as it used to, but sometimes I’ll forget the words for even simple concepts,” he sighed. “Here we are, nothing too fancy but unlike you I still haven’t mustered up the courage to speak to those I have left behind, and I don’t have an elder brother to look after me.”

His statement surprised Sherlock, something which wasn’t so rare with this man, to the extent that he did not respond for the few minutes it took to enter the apartment. Sherlock settled himself on a navy couch, resting the bitten leg on the table and removing his prosthetic to give the stump a break. “You had to leave close friends behind as well?”

“Yes. You were always the favorite, something I don’t envy you for, so Jimmy dearest didn’t actually kill himself to seal the threat with me. He just did what I assumed to do with you, which is threaten to kill those I cared about. How many were on his list for you?”

“Three,” Sherlock said quickly, pushing down the residual pain of his unrequited feeling for John.

Noah smiled sadly. “The same with me. I don’t know if he’ll forgive me, when I tell him. I’m desperately in love with him, even if he doesn’t know it. How did yours react to the news of your return?”

Knowing this man could read Sherlock as easily as he could read him should have been jarring. With Mycroft, being read was always an annoying experience, as Mycroft always saw more things than Sherlock would have, proof of his superior intelligence. With Noah, it was comforting, not having to explain as many trifles as he would have with other people, or in this case, not having to say something painful because he already knew what it was. “He punched me. And headbutted me. It wasn’t fun, I’m fairly certain he would have injured me had I revealed myself immediately after Mycroft pulled me out of Serbia.”

Noah winced in sympathy. “I can imagine that must have been unpleasant. I’m sorry to hear he got married.”

Sherlock sighed, and shrugged, wincing as Noah began applying disinfectant he had pulled from a kit that had for whatever reason been stashed under a sofa near the chair. “He’s happy, and that’s what matters, isn’t it? Anyway, he’s...”

“Straight,” Noah interrupted, laughing bitterly. “I know the feeling. You’d think, what with all our brains, we would have picked people to fall in love with who could reciprocate, don’t you?” he said sardonically.

“Unfortunately, I don’t think hearts listen to brains. I learned that one the hard way. I certainly learned that absence doesn’t only make the heart grow fonder, it makes wet dreams even more desperate.”

Noah mimed drinking, saying, “I’ll agree with that one. Alright” he said, and Sherlock realized that for once he had been distracted enough by a conversation not to realize what was going on outside it, as the wound on his leg was now covered by a bandage, “That’s done. You’re about my height, so I may have some trousers that could fit you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I suppose twenty minutes is not enough time to parade around the flat without trousers on?” he asked, his question half trying to be funny and half serious inquiry. 

“To be perfectly honest it wouldn’t be much of a problem for me,” Noah says to the detective’s surprise, causing the dark haired man to grin. “I have little to no problem with being naked myself, and I assume it’s the same with you?”

Sherlock snorted slightly, “To John’s chagrin, yes.”

“Ben would yell at me for wandering around naked. I’d tell him that clothes were a distraction for when I was trying to think,” Noah said completely seriously, with only a vague hint of a smile around his mouth. 

The detective laughed out loud this time. “Never quite needed to do that to think, but I understand your frustration. I went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet once, pissed my older brother off something fierce.”

Noah smiled genuinely, something Sherlock knew instinctively was rare, and had for the longest time belonged solely to Ben, his John. The detective reciprocated, hoping the other genius would understand that he didn’t smile for real for many people. “I can imagine. Buckingham Palace, you say?”

“A long story involving a dominatrix who refuses to leave my mind palace. It is rather frustrating,” Sherlock sighed slightly at the memory of Irene. It was still difficult to categorize exactly what he felt for her. Not... romantic exactly. It could have happened, really, had she not been rather happily unattracted to men and he to women, maybe even could have, had they been completely different people. The attraction had really been more on an intellectual level, one mind to another mind. 

“Irene Adler? Didn’t she fake her death some time ago as well?” Noah asked, genuinely curious. It was a bit incongruous, having this conversation with the two of the sitting idly, Sherlock with a heavily bandaged good leg. It was also rather nice, as he could shift topics as much as he wanted, and Noah, unlike most other people, did not seem to mind too much. Perhaps Sherlock’s circle of friends could be expanded slightly, from three (two-and-a-half?) to four. 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. It seems to be a favorite past time amongst genuises. I’m just glad James isn’t coming back anytime soon, it was thrilling for a time, the game,” he sighed, rubbing distractedly at his stump. It didn’t ache as much as it once did, but he sometimes still did that our of habit. It was oddly comforting, trying to work out pains in his thoughts by working out phantom pains in a leg that no longer existed. 

He didn’t need to finish his sentence, because Noah finished it for him. “Then he went to far, and he started targeting people around you, and then you faked your death, just as I faked mine, to keep them safe.”

Sherlock nodded again, and he grabbed himself around the waist, the movement almost unconscious. “It hurts, how he didn’t seem to get it, until he saw the leg, that the years away weren’t just... just...” _Some leisure trip around the continent._

Mycroft could always pick up on his thoughts, it would be interesting to see if Noah could do the same. 

_I know._ Noah’s thoughts broke into his, and Sherlock smiled tentatively at him. _It’s nice to be able to do that with someone who can reciprocate_ , Noah thought, before smiling back in an equally tentative manner. Their real smiles of earlier were prompted by realizing they were similar, but it seemed they had both been nervous about finding out just how similar. 

_You don’t... you don’t have have someone like Mycroft?_

Noah shook his head sadly. _No, I don’t._

It’s purely instinct, this sudden desire to hug the other detective, something Sherlock isn’t used to, but Noah picks up on it because he moved from the chair he’d been sitting in and sat heavily on the couch he had placed Sherlock on to finish tending to the bite marks in his leg. 

They awkwardly curl together, Noah trying not to jar Sherlock’s leg too badly. “I... it... fuck... my...” Noah gestures at himself, looking frustrated again as words escape him. Maybe the aphasia is related to emotional duress? Hypothesis to be tested at a very, very _other_ time. _My brain is always noisy, and I never had the benefit of a brother in a similar situation,_ he finally thinks, and oddly enough this makes Sherlock hold onto him tighter. 

_You can always think at me, okay? I’ll hear you._ Hearing that unlike him, Noah had been alone with his genius his entire life, or at least until he had met Ben, who had obviously had a similar influence on him as John had had on Sherlock, made Sherlock’s heart clench in a way that was decidedly unpleasant. 

Noah’s head was buried in Sherlock’s shoulder, and he nodded slightly, the hug making both of them mildly uncomfortable but neither of them quite willing to break away from it. 

Eventually Noah pulled away, and he smiled that genuine smile of his again. “You’re not so bad, Sherlock Holmes. I’m sorry I ever considered you worth deleting, even in those years that I’ve been away.”

Sherlock laughs, and grants Noah one of his own smiles. “Thank you, I say the same about you. Now, I do very much need to get back to 221B, do you think you would be willing to help me with that?”

“Of course. You thought it was my dog, originally, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Easy conclusion to jump to, considering you came running rather quickly,” Sherlock shrugged. Pain never did help his deductive faculties. 

“I was in those parts, purely coincidentally.” _I was spying on Ben. I miss him desperately, I don’t like it but it won’t go away so I just sort of go with it._

Sherlock had watched John from a distance rather a lot, before revealing he had returned, so he understood the drive to be near a person without allowing himself to actually be seen by them. He pulled on his prosthetic. “When are you going to tell him?”

Noah sighed. “Soon. Very soon. I can’t... I mean...” he banged his hands against sides for a moment, face scrunching as he concentrated fiercely on getting the words out. Definitely emotionally related then. “Fuck. I miss... yes, that’s the word, why do I always forget them? I miss him a good deal, and the network is gone so there’s no reason for me to stay dead. I just hope he’s happy to see me.”

For the second time this day, which is a personal record, Sherlock acted purely on instinct. “If you need to talk about it, I’m here. I think revealing oneself to be alive is a rather unique experience... I don’t know if anyone else you know really has.”

Noah nodded. “Well, come on then,” he said, deflecting suddenly from the current (emotional) topic. “I’ve got to bring you back to where you live. You okay to walk?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded. 

Fascinating, really, how much he had changed. Two years ago he would have bristled at any such offer of help. Now, he accepts it gratefully. Nothing like a Serbian prison to remove one of any unnecessary pride. 

Later, when he looked at his phone and realized that he now had three named contacts, he smiled, a small one this time. Maybe this resurrection of his wouldn’t be so lonely after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did this grow to be so big so soon????  
> I researched Aphasia to the best of my ability, but tell me if I'm not writing it well.


	3. I think we may have this thing backwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for vague m/m sex.   
> I dunno, maybe someone would be offended? The rating is T, is that enough? I took inspiration from the sex "scene" in TFiOS, where it's sort of shown and there's it's obvious they've had sex, but there's no graphic description.

Sherlock and Noah did not see each other face to face for a few months, though they did communicate through the occasional text message when one needed, for example, help from the other for a case. Once or twice, Sherlock had called the other genius immediately after waking from a nightmare, or a whenever the pressure of his mind on itself and his residual addiction made him long for heroin. Noah had done the same for similar reasons, though his mostly involved nightmares and less illegal substances.

So, it was surprising to Sherlock when Noah showed up, late one evening, staggering as if drunk. “What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, guiding him to the chair across from the one he was sitting in.

Noah’s mouth opened, but no sound was coming out. Sherlock quickly realized what had happened. Hey, you can broadcast if you like.

The other detective nodded gratefully. He hates me. He hates me. You know how yours is very much not attracted to men?

Sherlock nodded. I don’t need reminding of that.

Noah let out a shuddering breath, and suddenly Sherlock sprawled backwards on the couch, glad he’d removed his leg, and he suddenly had an armful of panicky fellow genius. He gripped tightly onto Sherlock’s shirt, and they were suddenly awkwardly curled up together on the couch. I told him I love him. He called me a fag and told me to get out.

The silence in the flat after Noah’s statement was louder than any sort of audible reaction Sherlock could have had. Instead of offering platitudes that would have meant nothing to both of them, Sherlock just held onto Noah tighter, and operating completely on instinct (something that happened often in this man’s presence, apparently) he began rocking him back and forth. They were similar heights, so it was a bit awkward, but Sherlock could tell it was still soothing for the other man.

What hurts the most, I think, is that I haven’t stopped being in love with him, Noah thought.

Sherlock winced in sympathy, rubbing at the spot where Mary’s bullet had pierced his chest. I’m so, so sorry.

In the next moment, Noah’s lips were on his, and before his rational or moral brain could kick in, Sherlock was kissing back. There was probably something very morally Not Good about this, considering the emotional duress the other man was probably feeling, but at this moment Sherlock didn’t care.

Noah was the first person who got the inside of Sherlock’s head other than Mycroft, and neither of them had gotten desperate enough to sleep with the other quite yet. Though to be perfectly honest Sherlock had wanked to the idea a few times. He shut that door in his mind palace, considering he had rather more important things to think about at the moment.

The kiss wasn’t really about power, though Noah was technically on top. It was easy and slow, both of them breathing through their noses as they let themselves focus solely on the feeling of each other’s mouths and tongues and teeth.

Noah began fumbling at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, and suddenly Sherlock placed a hand on the other man’s back, stilling him. “It’s... there’s a scar.”

What? Obviously Noah didn’t trust his voice to function properly at this point, because he hadn’t spoken at since arriving.

“It ends right above where the knee should be, and it just kind of puckers. It’s not really that great looking.”

Oh, get over yourself, Sherlock Holmes, Noah thought, before shoving Sherlock back down on the couch. Oh fuck, we should probably be doing this on a bed.

Mm. Well, I’m currently missing part of a leg, so help me up. Sherlock pushed Noah off him, and the ginger got up on slightly unsteady feet. Sherlock sat up, and grabbed the hand the other genius offered him. Hobbling on his one good leg was easier than he thought it would be, as Noah was about his height, meaning he could lean against the other man.

They made it to Sherlock’s room, and sort of fell on the bed. There wasn’t really anything sensuous or romantic about it, as it only happened because Sherlock’s leg gave out and walking one legged was a bit like riding a bike; once you stop you fall over.

The two of them moved about in the bed until they were in a similar position to the one they had been in on the couch, with Sherlock on his back and Noah on top of him, the two of them clutching at each other, mouths clamped together.

Sherlock couldn’t help the tiny thrust of his hips as Noah gripped him tighter, and both men groaned at the realization of the other’s arousal.

Noah let out another groan, this one of frustration, as he appeared to realize that he and Sherlock would have to stop kissing to undress each other, at least if they wanted to stay this closely pressed together.

Are you sure you want this? Sherlock asked. It seemed a bit late now, but he really did not want to damage the friendship he had somehow developed with this man.

Noah nods and pulls away. Sherlock, understanding what he is trying to do, started stripping as best he could while still holding tightly onto the ginger with one arm.

Eventually, they were both mostly naked. It was hurried, and frantic, and a lot messier than Sherlock usually let things get, but he could tell that the other man needed this, and in a way, he needed it to. A feeling had been brewing inside his mind palace, a big one. The John room was shrinking, or not so much shrinking but being matched by an equal room, one that didn’t lie so empty.

Nothing dramatic happened. Sherlock could tell when Noah was about to orgasm when his breaths started coming in short bursts. The detective followed soon after, and they lay together in silence, listening to their pounding heartbeats.

Nnnnnnnnng. Sherlock couldn’t tell who had thought that one, and he snuggled tighter against the other man, who sighed slightly and smiled against Sherlock’s chest. The post-coital neurochemicals were kicking in, making Sherlock’s mind pleasantly blank, and he managed to fall asleep in only a short period of time, a miracle for him.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up with Noah still beside him. Without thinking about it, the two of them were kissing again. This went on for a few minutes, before Noah pulled away, the two of them breathing heavily. “You okay?” he whispered, not quite looking at Sherlock. “I’m sorry for that.”

Sherlock stopped from where he had been tracing one of the other man’s scars with a finger, this one a thin jagged white line that was very different from the whip marks along his own stomach. “Don’t be. I needed that too, I think, not for the immediate reason you had but... you understand... all of it,” he said lamely, words feeling useless. He tapped a burn scar on his hip to illustrate the point. “We’re so alike, the two of us, and we’ve both been through hell because of the same person. It doesn’t mean... it doesn’t mean we have to be together in all the ways people are usually together, but...” Your room is growing Noah. It’s almost as big as the John room, and fuller.

The look on Noah’s face is a mix between surprise and happiness. “So I’m not crazy, that the same is happening to me?” his face darkened. “Though I guess my Ben room is a lot darker now than it was,” he whispered, and Sherlock gripped him tighter.

“Hey, I’m here remember?” he said, and Noah nodded.   
“I’m here too,” he whispered in answer. The two of them lay there, content with each other. “You know, I think we got it backwards. I’m fairly certain relationships are supposed to come before sex.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Speaking of sex, willing to go another round?”

Noah laughed. “Of course. It’s not like there’s anything else I’d rather do.”

The detective snorted, and the two of them proved for the second time that three and a half legs and one and a half functioning Wernicke’s and Broca's areas were just as good at causing two people to drive the other to orgasm as a full set. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am iffy about the last line, if it's offensive, TELL ME, and I'll remove it.


	4. Ending

John arrived at the crime scene about twenty minutes after he received Sherlock’s text. He’d meant to arrive earlier, but an incident with Wilma, who was teething, had delayed him a bit. Most of the time had been spent with Mary trying to convince him to go. And so he had.  
Sherlock wasn’t alone behind the police tape, someone else who wasn’t a copper standing beside him. As John approached Sherlock, he gave the other man a once-over. About Sherlock’s height, with red hair and blue eyes. He looked about the same age as Sherlock, and this clearly wasn’t his first crime scene.  
Bits of conversation carried over to the former army doctor. “-a carpenter doing in this part of London?” Sherlock was asking.  
John awkwardly approached the duo, feeling out of place for the first time in years. Sherlock noticed him, and poked the other man in the side. “Noah, John. John, Noah. John, Noah is my boyfriend, do with that as you will,” with that he turned around and went back to look at the body.  
There was a sort of strange abruptness to his motions that surprised John. “Hello?” he asked.  
The man, Noah, apparently, sighed. “Look, if you’re not okay with it you can leave, Sherlock’s fairly fragile emotionally right now.”  
“No, no, I’m okay with it, I’m just surprised Sherlock has anyone of either gender, and what do you mean?” Fragile? How... oh, right, the leg. And the cause of the leg.  
Noah raised an eyebrow and nodded. “It’s good you don’t have a problem, my you called me a fag at one point,” he shrugged. “Me and Sherlock kind of got the sex after you start dating thing backwards, but whatever. Seriously though, thanks for coming.”  
John felt slightly overwhelmed, and surprised. “I’m sorry, but you two?” he hoped the ‘had sex’ would come through nonverbally.  
“Yes. Twice.”  
Sherlock, who had ended up next to Noah without John noticing, added, “Well, it depends how you define sex, considering, well,” he grinned at Noah, who raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes. Sherlock snorted, and poked the other man in the side. “Your aphasia getting better!” he suddenly remarked, ignoring John’s presence, and Noah nodded.  
John looked at both at them. “I’m sorry?” he asked.  
“Noah has/had aphasia.”  
“Definitely still present tense, but it’s usually mostly related to panic attacks now.”  
“Alright then.” John said, still confused. “What, I mean? Sherlock brought you to a crime scene?”  
Noah blinked at him slightly. “I’m his boyfriend.”  
“Okay,” he said, and the two turned back to the body.  
Greg tapped him on the shoulder. “Why were you late?”  
“Wilma’s teething. You wouldn’t happen to have any advice?” he was desperate, at this point. And he knew that Greg had children, plus it would be something to distract him from the whole Sherlock-has-a-boyfriend-thing.  
The DI shrugged. “Give her something to chew on, preferably something durable, and small enough that she can’t swallow it.”  
“Mm, thanks,” he said, looking over at Sherlock and Noah. “How long has that been going on?”  
“A while now,” the DI answered, and John could the grey haired man’s metaphorical hackles raising. “If you have problems with it, you can kindly leave.”  
“Why does everyone assume that? I’m fine!” John sighed. “I’m not homophobic!”  
“Alright, alright,” Greg said, sighing. “Look John, it’s really great of you to come, but I don’t really think Sherlock needs you here today.”  
John blinked at the gray haired man. “You want me to go?” he asked, surprised.  
Greg shrugged. “Look, mate, I’m sorry, but Sherlock’s got Noah now. And I understand that you were late because of Wilma, but that’s actually also the reason why you can’t stay. They don’t know it yet, but I’m fairly certain this entire things going to go awry quite quickly, and you have a kid to think about.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. On the next words, his tone dropped, “Look, Sherlock was in love with you, and it really took a toll on him, all of this mess. You have to understand that it won’t be the same between the two of you, ever again,” the DI smiled sadly. “I thought it’d be Sherlock who would have trouble accepting that, but now I realize that it wasn’t. It was you. You and Sherlock can still be friends, but Sherlock-and-John died when Sherlock did. I’m really sorry,” not even letting John respond, Greg ducked under the crime scene tape and walked off, leaving John standing there.  
Looking at Sherlock and Noah, John for the first time felt a twinge of jealousy. The two of them were talking frantically at each other, partly aloud and partly with gestures. He’d had that with Sherlock once, until Moriarty came along and screwed it all up.  
John shook his head to clear it. He had Mary now, and Wilma, and it was time to go home.


End file.
